'Twas the Eve of St Crispin, and all through the camp
The soldiers were surly, and drunken, and damp.
The English waxed valiant in spite of their cares,
In hopes that the victory soon would be theirs.
The Frenchmen were bragging all safe in their tents
Of horses and women and ransoms they'd spent.
And good Thomas Erpingham, an old man and grey
Lay contented on turf and awaited fair day.
But out in the camp where Fluellen stood preaching.
King Henry was prowling for the common man's teaching.
Humble "Harry Le Roy" he gave as his name,
To escape from his station, to hide from his fame.
He walked 'mongst his men, though there's no doubt they stank,
And disputed theology, warfare and rank.
And then, as great monarchs have done through the ages
He stepped to one side, and he whinged -- for three pages!
Meanwhile in their tents there lay earls by the dozen,
And the old Duke of York dreamt of snogging his cousin.
Some dreamed of victory, some of making their name,
While some lay awake and complained of the rain.
'Til over the field on St Crispian's Day,
Came the English and French, all to join the affray.
Bold lances met armour with a terrible screech,
And the King, as kings do at such times -- made a speech.
The French sent forth Mountjoy, demanding a ransom;
Henry's answer was long, and distinctly unhandsome.
They fought all that day amidst glory and grief --
With Pistol providing the comic relief.
The French nobles rode forth and their valiant deaths got
For France -- or at least, for the sake of the plot.
Brave Suffolk lay dead, who would sorely be missed,
And York there beside him -- at least he got kissed.
The French in a rush came upon their position,
While Fluellen and Gower discoursed on tradition;
And as the French army were slaughtered like cattle
They anaethemised Falstaff, that disgusting old rattle.
Montjoy came most humbly, the cease-fire to seek,
And Harry the King played a prank with a leek.
Came Exeter then, and the King bowed his head,
At the names of his enemies, brave Frenchmen, dead.
Delabreth and Chatillon! Rambures, Brabant;
Grandpre and Roussi, such a terrible chant...
Fauconberg, Foix, Beaumont and Lestrale,
And a thousand names more -- draw a merciful veil
O'er the grief for the loss of so many brave men;
Let them lie in all honour; and to England ride then.
Ring the bells for King Henry and those at his side --
And then off to Troyes, to get him a bride.






The Ballad of Agincourt Carol, Sweetheart of the Regiment... by
Marna Nightingale is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.5 Canada License.